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LATER
by Michael Foster
It
's strange, the things you remember. When life has crumbled suddenly, and left
you standing there, alone. It s not the big important things that you remember
when you come to that: not the plans of the years, not the love nor the hopes
you 've worked so hard for. It 's the little things you that you remember
then: the little things you hadn 't noticed at the time. The way a hand
touched yours, and you too busy to notice; the hopeful little inflection of a
voice you didn 't really bother to listen to.
John
Carmody found that out, staring through the living-room window at the cheerful
Tuesday-afternoon life of the street. He kept trying to think about the big,
important things, lost now andthe years and the plans and the hopes. And the
love. But he couldn't quite get them focused sharply in his mind just now Not
this afternoon.
hey, those
important things, were like a huge but nebulous background in his mind. All he
could remember now was a strange little thing: nothing, really, if you stopped
and thought about it in the light of the years and the plans and the great
love. It was only something his little girl had said to him. One evening, two,
perhaps three weeks ago, Nothing, if you looked at it rationally. The sort of
thing that kids are always saying.
But it
was what he was remembering, now. That particular night, he had brought home
from the office a finished draft of the annual stockholders ' report. Very
important, it was. Things being as they were, it meant a great deal andto his
future, to the future of his wife and of his little girl. He sat down to
re-read it before dinner. It had to be right: it meant so much.
And just as
he turned a page, Marge, his little girl, came with a book under her arm. It
was a green-covered book, with a fairy-tale picture pasted on it. And she
said, "
Look, Daddy. "
He glanced up and
said, "
Oh, fine. A new book, eh? "
"
Yes,
Daddy, "
she said. . "
Will you read me a story in it? "
"
No, dear.
Not just now, "
he said. . Marge just stood there, and he read through a
paragraph, which told the stockholders about certain replacements in the
machinery of the factory.
And
Marge 's voice, with timid and hopeful little inflections, was saying, "
But
Mummy said you probably would, Daddy. "
He looked
over the top of the typescript. "
I 'm sorry, "
he answered. . "
Maybe
Mummy will read it to you. I 'm busy, Dear. "
"
No, "
Marge said politely. . "
Mummy is much busier, upstairs. Won 't you read me
just this on story? Look andit has a picture. See? Isn 't it a lovely picture,
Daddy? "
"
Oh, yes.
Beautiful, "
he said. . "
Now, that picture has class, hasn 't it? But I do
have to work tonight. Some other time. …"
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12"After that, there was
quite a long silence. Marge just stood there, with the book open at the lovely
picture. It was a long time before she said anything else. He read through two
more pages explaining in full detail, as he had directed, the shifts in
markets over the past twelve months, the plans outlined by the sales
department for meeting these problems which, after all, could safely be
ascribed to local conditions, and the advertising program which after weeks of
conferences had been devised to stabilize and even increase the demand for
their products.
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">"
But it is a lovely
picture, Daddy. And the story looks so exciting, "
Marge said. ."
I know,
"
he said. . "
Ah …mmmmmmmm. Some other time. Run along, now. "
"
I 'm
sure you 'd enjoy it, Daddy, "
Marge said. ."
Eh? Yes, I know I would. But
later. "
"
Oh, of course, "
she said. . "
You bet. "
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">But she didn 't go away.
She still stood there quietly, like a good child. And after a longtime, she
put the book down on the stool at his feet, and said, "
Well, whenever you
get ready, just read it to yourself. Only read it loud enough so I can hear,
too. "
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">"
Sure, "
he said. .
"
Later. "
And that was what John Carmody was remembering. Now. Not the long
plans of love and care for the years ahead.
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">He was remembering the way
a well-mannered child had touched his hand with timid fingers, and said,
"
Only read it loud enough so I can hear, too. "
And that was why, now, he
put his hand on the book. From the corner table where they had piled some of
Marge 's playthings, picking them up from the floor where she had left
them.
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12"> The
book wasn 't new any
more, and the green cover was dented and thumbed. He opened it to the lovely
picture. And reading that story, his lips moving stiffly with anguish to form
the words, he didn 't try to think any more, as he should be thinking, about
the important things: about his careful and shrewd and loving plans for the
years to come; and for a little while he forgot, even, the horror and
bitterness of his hate for the half-drunken punk kid who had careened down the
street in a second-hand car and who was now in jail on manslaughter
charges.
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">He didn 't even see his
wife, white and silent, dressed for Marge 's funeral, standing in the doorway,
trying to make her voice say calmly, "
I 'm ready, Dear. We must go. "
style="text-indent: 30; margin: 12">"
Because John Carmody
was reading:
'Once upon a time, there was a little girl
who lived in a woodcutter 's hut, in the Black Forest. And she was so fair
that the birds forgot their singing from the bough, looking at her. And there
came a day when …'"
Foster, Michael. (1995). Configurations. United States Information Service (USIS): Classroom Textbook Series: " American Literature and Culture. " -- http://www.njcu.edu/cill/vol7/luk.html |
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updated: 24 July 2010